Righteous Gathering: Book 1 of the Righteous Survival EMP Saga

by Timothy Van Sickel

  "EMP, nuclear attacks in DC and New York, Other EMPs across the world. Shit has hit the fan, Mark, but you know that already, too." He states matter of factly.

  I nod. "You got someone with a working ham radio." A statement not a question. He nods. "We got a guy too, heard similar stuff. So why are we still here? Where is God? I understand your questions better now. I don’t know the answers. But we are still here and God has a plan for us. We didn't meet by chance, Chris.This is part of His plan. And I'm happy to be your well-armed friend down the road."

  I wave Jerry over and indicate to Ken for him to join us. Chris has his men bring over a front end loader and they start unloading the bodies. Ken helps them search the truck for any drugs we may have missed. The bar owner asks about any more liquor and we determine they must have dropped that at their camp. They had cleaned his place out of booze and as much beer as they could load. We also determine that there must be several more meth heads in their group. Chris says they'll make plans to pay their camp a visit. Jerry offers them some simple but prudent advice about their roadblocks. We get one of Chris's EMTs to tend to Grace 's arm. Fortunately he has some antibiotics for him, too.

  The search of the truck comes up with some small amounts of meth, a couple of packets of heroin, and a few used needles, but no large stashes of prescription grade pills, or opiatess. This means that there must be a significant stash of drugs at their compound. The pharmacist, and her technician, were both killed, so no one knows how much the Wagerlys got away with. I want to ask about meds that I know Becca and James will need, but I hold my tongue. No one here right now knows enough about what's going on to pursue that concern yet.

  As we are talking, the Flight 93 stragglers start moving through. I tell Chief Chris what we did to help them out in Central City. He nods approval. We agree to keep in touch and set up a communications system of some type soon, even if it's just relay runners. Two small towns in rural Pennsylvania are setting up a loose alliance to help each other. Probably not much different than in the days when George Washington and Christopher Gist roamed these mountains; you need trustworthy friends to survive.

  One of his firefighters escorts us to the roadblock on Hill Road, so we can continue on towards Central City.

  Chapter 16 Security, 2015

  Some of our trails and fences need some maintenance, as they do every year. I've got a chainsaw, extra gas, bar oil, a come-along, some steel wedges, a shovel and an axe. And it is all loaded on the four-wheeler. I don’t have to carry anything! My mom and dad would be rolling over in their grave right now because we brought a four wheeler onto the farmstead.

  My parents walked everywhere. Even after four knee replacements, my dad refused to get a four-wheeler. He was still downhill skiing after two knee replacements at the age of seventy-six. He and my mom would cross-country ski. They even tried snowshoeing, but never a snowmobile or four-wheeler to get around, too much noise, too much of a disturbance to nature.

  And today we brought in one of those glorified golf carts with fat tires and a lot of room: and a motor. Again, my parents would be horrified! But, we got one hundred and twenty acres of mountain top forest and farm to maintain, with livestock and active farming going on. Rebecca and I are not retired yet; I probably never will retire. So the ability to get around this place fast, and with work gear, beat out Mom and Dad's dislike for four- wheelers. I am sure I will hear them screaming at me from heaven when I finally get a snowmobile!

  On the other hand, the security cameras we put in place, Dad would like that. He was not a tech wiz, but being an engineer, he appreciated the value of modern technology. He had a remote sensor put in the driveway twenty years before anything like that even came close to being mainstream. If someone came down the driveway, the doorbell rang. No surprise visitors for Mom and Dad.

  The security camera system came in to play last Thanksgiving when my brothers and I were talking about what it would take to keep a good eye on the farmstead in an emergency situation. Our fears of a societal or economic collapse had grown. The events following the problematic shootings of black men by police, compounded by the distorted reporting from the media, had led to real unrest in many cities. What if that unrest broke out nationwide?

  I said it would take at least nine guys to keep the property secure, three on alert at all times: one at the old farmhouse, main gate, and two patrolling the grounds. My brother John looked at me in disbelief. "Mark," he said, "Get in the twenty-first century, get some trail cams set up! You can get a dozen trail cams with a monitor and control system for a couple thousand bucks. For a bit more you can get cams with low-end night optics. Your biggest expense will be the cabling. I'll help you install it all. With today's technology, it is pretty much plug and go."

  As we are talking, I think back to when I bought a cheap trail cam when we lived in the city and busted several people for stealing from my shop because of the pictures it provided. Remote trail cams, it's probably a good idea. A few months later, I took John's advice and bought a remote cam security system. I found a set of six cameras cheap on eBay, really cheap. I bought two sets, with the night optics. I also bought a back-up controller and stuck it and the extra cameras in the Faraday cage.

  That summer John and Jan came out for a weekend and we set the system up. We set one cam up in the attic of the old farmhouse looking down the driveway. We set up another looking at the hen house. A third overlooked the cattle pasture, and a fourth looks at where an old logging road comes up from the valley to the corner of the pasture, down where the sweet corn grows. We used almost a thousand feet of cabling for just those four cams. We ran the cable along the fence lines as much as we could, but we had to trench and bury a fair amount of cable, too. I make a mental note to get a couple thousand more feet of cable. Ouch, I think, that will cost as much as the system did.

  Now we have trail cams watching the property! They are all wired back to the home office, and I can check on them from my iPhone too! I plan on putting two more out to watch a couple of good hunting spots to see how the deer move. We have the controller set in the home office to start recording when the infrared sensors in the cameras trip. I can remotely change the cameras to operate 24/7. The cabling system has a low voltage line built in to power the cameras. The cams themselves are all stationary, no panning, but we can remote zoom. Overall, it is a very cool system and will allow me to keep a better eye on the property.

  Chapter 17 Getting Home, Part 2, September 12, 2018

  Hill Road out of Hooversville takes us out of the Stoneycreek River valley and up to the ridge top. I drive the van with most of our crew, Linc drives our newly acquired truck with Ken as shotgun. It is a beautiful road to drive, with many old farmsteads intermixed with gorgeous new homes, built to take advantage of the spectacular views. Today is different. It is still a clear blue sky and the views span for miles. But plumes of heavy smoke rise from many places.

  I want to stop and discern the damage. Everyone in the van can see, even here in the remote hills of Pennsylvania, that the devastation is real, and ranges far. The talk from my passengers ranges from bewilderment to rage. I decide we should stop and take in what has happened. It will be tough to do, but we need to face this new reality.

  Finding an open stretch of road, with good views to the north and west, and some sightlines to the east, we pull over. I have everyone get out so we can see what is going on. Jerry and Ken stay armed and alert. Britt protests that she just wants to get her kids to the farm, that it is too dangerous to stop. Ken assures her that we need to assess the scene, and that it will be safe. His reassuring words calm her, new respect for him seen in her eyes, even though he is still stone-faced and stern.

  Looking out from this vantage point, the scene is incredible. A normally pristine skyline is polluted with plumes of smoke coming from many places. We stare silently at the signs of the distant wreckage and destruction. Conferring with Ken and Jerry, we try to pinpoint the sources. We know of at least three or fo
ur large fires in Johnstown, and those plumes, from this distance, make one big dark gray smudge on the western horizon.

  There seems to be another large plume coming from what we guess to be the Richland area, but we never saw anything burning up there. The major mall and many shopping plazas are there, and it could be any one of them. A major military presence is there, at the Murtha Airport, and all the National Guard and Army Reserve units based along Airport Road. We hope the military has enough equipment running to fight back the anarchy and fight the fires, too.

  Closer, and to the east, is a major forest fire. I state that it must be from the fire I saw yesterday, the coal truck accident by Clear Shade Creek. Another more distant large fire is burning further to the east and again I confirm that it is from the Pleasantville area where I saw the closest plane go down.

  As we all look over the wide expanse that we can see from this ridge top, and all the devastation that is taking place before our very eyes, a solemnness overtakes our small group. I ask that we all hold hands and bow our heads, I indicate to Jerry and Ken to join us. God will watch over us as we pray. I quietly ask for God's forgiveness of our sins and that He watch over us and protect us in the dark days ahead. We break hands and turn back to our vehicles, many weeping, knowing what is ahead of us, now that we have seen the devastation before us.

  This is rural Pennsylvania. Our biggest town, Johnstown, is on fire. Our major shopping area is on fire. Major parts of the forests are on fire. What must the big cities look like? What is Pittsburgh like, where many of my brothers and sisters live? What about the major cities, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Chicago? New York and Los Angeles were reportedly nuked. Maybe that quick destruction was better than the slow burn that most of the rest of the country will experience. Why has this happened, God? I ask again. The silence is deafening. God always answers our prayers. But not always when we want him to, or in the way we want him to. I know he will answer my prayer, or maybe he already has, I just don’t know it yet.

  We all load quietly, humbly, into the truck and van. As we drive further down the road, towards the farmstead, we see the big gorgeous homes are still there, but a few are on fire, neighbors futility trying to put them out. The work of the Wagerlys? We do not have the time or the ability to stop and help. We keep a steady course towards Central City.

  ===============================================================

  We come in to Central City from the north, Hill Road having eventually run into State Route 160 north of town. We roll up to another makeshift roadblock. Not in town, like earlier, this one has been set up north of town. In the eight hours that we have been gone, someone has gotten smart about the roadblocks. We stop fifty yards short and I step out. "Yo to the roadblock," I holler once again. "We want to pass through to our farm on the other side of town."

  "Approach unarmed," I hear in response. I cannot tell who hollered of the several men at the roadblock.

  "I am laying down my rifle and side arm, I am your neighbor." I lay down my rifle and pistol. As I walk up to this small group of men, I can see they are tired, agitated and nervous.

  As I get close, one of them recognizes me. "Yo, Billy," he says to the apparent leader. "I know'd him, he was talkin' to Reverend Wysinger. He an' his folks got a farm on the other side o' town. Dey be good people, he be all right." I introduce myself to Billy and inquire about where Reverend Wysinger is. He opens the roadblock and he lets us roll through.

  A half-mile down the road we come to a large gathering of Flight 93 stragglers, in the parking lot of the Baptist Church. We have seen a couple of farm trucks coming and going down Main Street and through the roadblock. Those heading north, towards Windber, have been carrying stragglers.

  Jerry and I get out of the van. I see Ken get out of the truck and head towards us. Ken nods his head towards St. Paul 's Catholic Church across the street, and says he is heading over there for a fewminutes, apprehension and relief showing on his face. I nod, and let him know we will wait as long as he needs. Ken was raised Catholic, and he is going to go do what good Catholics do.

  I grasp Jerry in a firm handshake, "Jerry, we got you home. Sorry for putting you through so much. You have no idea how glad I was to have you along. I don’t even know you, but you are my brother now, don't hesitate to ask for any favors. You helped me save my family from that mess in town, I owe you."

  He takes my hand, and pulls me into a big “man hug', with a couple of quick slaps on my back. "You did what I would have done if I had family. I am glad I could help, my brother. I am glad I could help. Keep an eye on Kenny. If he needs someone to talk to, you send him my way. What he did today, not many men have ever done, but I can tell you he is strong, much stronger than he looks. You never know where or when the patriot will stand up. Sometimes it comes from the least expected places. Let him know he is not alone."

  I have a tear in my eye as we break apart. "I will do that, my friend, I will do that."

  "Tell the Reverend I'll be in tomorrow to talk things over. Let him know everything we saw. He needs to know how bad the situation is. Jerry, you got a good head on your shoulders. You saw how bad it is out there. Help these people get organized for what's coming. God gave you talents and wisdom. Use them to help out this town, to help your neighbors." He nods at me, knowing, and concerned.

  Ken comes back from his church, disappointment displayed across his face. He jumps in the van's shotgun seat and silently indicates that we should pull out. I jump in, and wave for Linc to follow. We are far up in the hills, and the few miles to the farmstead should go smoothly.

  Fifteen minutes later, as we pull down the long drive to the old farmstead, I hear the big old school bell start to ring as Rusty watches us pull up, a big grin on his face. Becca and Janie come running out, weapons in hand, serious and worried looks across their faces, until they see that it is us.

  Chapter 18Back Home, September 12, 2018

  We stop at the big old farmhouse, and Britt is out of the van and hugging Becca before the dust settles under our tires. Larson and Grace are right behind her, and Janie and her boys join in, after coming down off the porch. Linc and Kim step out of the van as well, and take in the surroundings, all that is happening. They smile broadly seeing the farmstead, and the love that is shared here. After the traumatic events of the last two days, this sight is truly peaceful, and welcoming.

  I introduce our two newcomers to Becca, and everyone else. Becca steps back and eyes them as a mother hen may look over a new rooster in the hen house, trying to determine friend or foe. Her smile warms genuinely from her instinctive judgment of character. I tell her of how they have no way home, and no family to get to, that they have decided for now, to help us out, and hunker down here.

  Talk turns to what we have been through. I tell Blake and Rusty to look after the two youngest boys and little Sarah while the adults talk things over. They protest, wanting to be involved, and both of them are old enough that they should be, but we need them to look after the children. So, with a stern look from their mother, they do as they are told, and sulk back to the farmyard where the three young ones are playing.

  We tell Becca and Janie of the roadblocks, the fires, the dead stragglers and the shoot out. We tell them of how things are turning bad in some places, and how people are coming together in other places. How some of the small towns have already been hit by the bandits, and how the townsfolk are pulling together. How some people have turned to chaos, while others are looking for ways to help people out. We talk for over twenty minutes about our trip, what we have seen, and all that has happened. We all agree that anarchy is starting to happen, and that we have to make the farmstead a safe haven. It is also reluctantly agreed upon that we need to help our neighbors, help restore order, and help the stragglers. We all know that we have no plan to do this, but that we must help as much as we can. We end with a short prayer, once again asking God for guidance and wisdom. I think back to my priorities, God first, family second, community third,
self last. So how do we help others and not imperil our family? I pray that God will give us the answers.

  We all help Ken, Britt and the boys unload, to get moved into the old farmhouse. Linc and Kim will stay in the new house with me and Becca. I let Linc know that I cannot let him be armed in our house. He is a guest in our home, he will be respected and protected. He obliges without any protest, disconcerted about the overall situation, but happy to be somewhere safe.

  The talk soon turns to food. Some of us have not eaten in many hours and we have been through exhaustive ordeals. Becca and Janie tell us they have already started a large pot of bean and ground beef chili. We can all eat within an hour or so. I tell Linc that he will keep watch on the front porch with me while everyone else gets settled in, and gets something to eat. His wife, Kim, volunteers to bring our dinner out to us when it's ready.

  Linc and I settle in on the front porch. I grab a bottle of cheap bourbon, and pour us each two fingers, neat. I silently offer him a glass as I eye him over, head to toe. He is well dressed, in a practical sense, good hiking boots, not dress shoes, Levi jeans, not designer jeans, lightweight, but sturdy two-pocket shirt over a tee shirt. He also has an over-the- shoulder pack with him. I realize that what he is wearing is all he has in the world. His car is dead, at the Flight 93 Memorial. What he packed for the trip is in a hotel room in Johnstown. His home is five hundred miles away and might as well be on the far side of the moon. And despite this, he is remarkably calm, composed.

  "You’re an engineer, you're a smart guy, what do you think happened, Linc?" I ask.

  He sighs. He looks at his feet for a few moments, then looks back up at the sky, and the fading light in the east. Not a contrail to be seen, only a few ugly gray smudges of smoke on the horizon. A redwinged blackbird skirts down the fence line, and a few goldfinches peck at the sunflower seed in the feeder. The goldenrod sway in the evening breeze, the nearby oak leaves rustle. A bright red cardinal chirps as he and his mate cautiously make their way to the seed scattered below the feeder.